


Assassins

by dining_alone



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Bounty Hunters, Identity Porn, Inappropriate Use of the Force, M/M, Multi, disguises, everyone is terrible, evil blowjobs, no major character death though, so don't worry about that, straight-up murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-05-27 05:16:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6271066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dining_alone/pseuds/dining_alone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The more you love someone, the more you want to hire someone else to kill him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning: I went overboard with my bounty hunter OC here. He was a lot of fun to write! So if that's gonna bother you, turn back now.

It starts with a call on his comm’s most secure channel, the one he reserves for wet jobs and high-profile clients.

Sturch knows who it is right away. He’s only given the access code to one person this month: an old friend from his time as a member of now-disbanded bounty hunters’ guild. An old friend who happens to look stunning in a skin-tight catsuit.

He’s grinning when he presses a button on the control panel and allows the call through.

“I wasn’t expecting to hear back from you so soon,” says Sturch. “Eager for round two already?”

Bazine Netal’s voice fills the cockpit, silky and inscrutable as ever. “Better yet, my friend. I have a job for you.”

“What could possibly be better than that last night on Coruscant?” Sturch replies, keeping his tone light and teasing even though his interest is piqued. Netal has many charms, but chief among them is her keen business sense. She wouldn’t contact him with anything less than an extremely lucrative offer, especially not on the secure channel.

“Come now, Sturch. We both know you’re more interested in a fat stack of credits than going back to bed with me.”

“I can think of plenty of people who would pay a fat stack of credits to go to bed with you.”

Netal affects a tinkling laugh, and not for the first time, Sturch wonders whether the mercenary ever experiences anything approaching genuine emotion. “You’re a funny man,” she says, not sounding remotely amused. “I want ten percent.”

“Only ten? I’ve never known you to go in for less than twenty.”

“It’s a big job. If you pull it off, neither of us will ever have to work again. You could retire to a nice little lakeside villa on Naboo.”

Sturch’s pulse jumps in his throat at the words _if you pull it off_. Bazine knows him all too well, knows he can’t resist a challenge. She also knows that he has no intention of retiring in the foreseeable future. She’s trying to goad him.

“Who’s the client, anyway?” he asks. “You’ve given me almost nothing to work with here.”

“I can’t give you a name yet. But I can give you coordinates.’’

Sturch sighs and leans back in the captain’s chair, rubbing at a patch of stubble on his chin. He always forgets to shave during these extended solitary journeys between star systems.

It’s not unusual for a client to keep their identity concealed prior to meeting with Sturch in person. The bigger the job, the more secrecy is required. Still, something about Netal’s offer gives him pause.

As though she senses his hesitation, Bazine speaks again. “You’re the best in the galaxy, my friend. You know that. I wouldn’t have reached out to you otherwise.”

Sturch rubs at his temples, picturing another few lines of zeroes appearing at the end of his account balance. Picturing Bazine Netal dropping to her knees before him in a dimly-lit hotel room, fixing him with a rare, authentic smile.

“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he says, and he ends the call.

A set of coordinates appear on the screen a moment later. Sturch keys them in to the ship’s navigational system, preparing to change course. He’s got another long journey ahead of him.

 

***

 

The rendezvous takes place in a bustling port city at the edge of the Outer Rim territories. 

Upon arriving, he pays for a space in the municipal docking bay and then strolls out into the planet’s abundant sunlight, squinting under the sudden glare. Once his vision adjusts, he looks up at the various types of spacecraft zooming overhead, their strange designs marking them as Wild Space vessels. The more familiar-looking ships all sport the First Order’s bright red insignia. Almost unconsciously, Sturch runs his fingers over the blaster holstered against his left thigh. He sets off, moving deeper into the city.

It seems as though representatives from every species in the galaxy have converged here on Terminus, babbling in their native languages, sniffing out mid-day meals or stumbling drunkenly from tavern doorways. Some yell out as he passes, but Sturch ignores them. With his small stature and slight frame, he is aware that he presents an ideal target for thieves and worse. In his youth, he hated the appearance of vulnerability his body gave him. Now, years later, he can’t imagine a more terrific disguise. He’s brought down opponents more than three times his size with his bare hands. He can hit a moving target from thousands of meters away. The few opportunistic thugs who have tried to take advantage of him in the past found themselves on the business end of his blaster or a well-placed dropkick.

Thankfully, he is left alone until he arrives at his destination: a small, dingy pub at the end of a narrow alleyway. Flickering Aurebesh letters over the doorway spell out _The Brezak’s Bargain._ Sturch steps inside, grateful for a respite from the sun.

He locates the individual he assumes is his client right away: never a good sign. Most of the bar’s patrons are grubby, slumped creatures attempting to drink away their sorrows in between shifts at the city docks, but the man who locks eyes with him when he enters looks like he’s just come from a formal dinner on Coronet City. He’s tall—very tall, for a human—and pale with a shock of artfully-disheveled dark hair; Sturch would bet any number of credits that it’s full of volumizing chemicals. His fitted black ensemble is complimented by a deep purple cloak. Even though he sticks out like a sore thumb in the little cantina, no one seems to pay him any mind.

The man starts in his direction, but Sturch nods for him to sit down at a nearby table, already not liking the way this meeting is going. When Sturch pulls up a chair across from his would-be client, the man speaks up, entirely too loudly.

“Subra Sturch.”

Not good.

“I see Netal found it necessary to give you my full name,” Sturch says, keeping his voice low and hoping the other man will follow his example.

The young man frowns, evidently confused. He’s got the same sort of plush lips that Sturch likes to see on a woman. “Who’s _Netal_?”

“Ah. Never mind.” So either Bazine used an alias or she was operating through a third party. Interesting. He mentally files the information away for later. “Now, let’s keep this short. Who are you?”

“I don’t see how that’s—”

Sturch cuts him off. “I’m not in the habit of taking jobs from unknown quantities. Tell me who you are, and know that if you lie to me, I can have you blacklisted from the client registry in a microsecond.”

Indignation briefly contorts the man’s features, and for a moment he resembles nothing more than a petulant, oversized teenager—an impressive feat, considering he looks close to thirty.

Sturch considers the very real possibility that coming here was a mistake.

Then the young man begins to speak, lowering his voice this time. All the while, Sturch scans the room for anyone who looks a little too intent on their conversation. He’s already switched on the sensor that will inform him of active recording devices within a fifty meter radius, but it hasn’t picked up on anything yet.

“My name’s Mat Koradus. My grandfather was the Patriarch of the Koradin Aristocracy before the civil war.”

Sturch’s knowledge of Outer Rim history isn’t as extensive as it should be, but he remembers hearing something about the Koradin system surrendering to the Rebel Alliance shortly after the battle of Yavin. “So your family is loyal to the New Republic, then?”

Koradus scowls as though Sturch has personally insulted him. “No, they broke with the rest of the Aristocracy and backed the Empire. We had to go into hiding for a while, but the First Order will restore us to our rightful place. They’ve let us keep our estate, unlike those thieves in the Senate.”

Judging by the way the young man dresses and carries himself (along with the hefty payout Netal mentioned), Sturch is positive that this _estate_ includes a substantial trust fund. “I see. Well then, I can’t imagine why you would require my services. It sounds like everything’s going well for you and yours.”

 Koradus does not appear moved by his sarcasm. “My request is of a more… _personal_ nature,” he replies. “Not political.”

 _Everything is political, you idiot,_ Sturch wants to say, but instead he raises an eyebrow. “Go on.”

For the first time since Sturch laid eyes on him, the man glances around the room. Apparently satisfied that no one is watching, he withdraws a flimsiplast sheet from his cloak pocket and slides it across the table. Sturch takes it and turns it over.

The sight that greets him is familiar, one he’s seen all over the holonet: white skin, jutting cheekbones, and immaculately-coiffed red hair. He even recognizes the abundance of decorations pinned to the figure’s uniform. Sturch quickly flips the sheet back over, hiding the image of General Brendol Hux II, commander of the First Order.

“Are you out of your fucking _mind_?” hisses Sturch.

Spots of color have appeared on Koradus’s cheeks, and he responds with fervor. “Hux is a terrible leader. The man can barely fire a blaster. He has no experience in the field, only with simulations. In just a few years he’s managed to ruin the whole Stormtrooper progra—”

“If I recall, you said this wasn’t political,” interrupts Sturch. “What do you have against the General, personally?”

“That’s none of your concern,” Koradus snaps. The flush in his cheeks has spread to his neck.

“You’re asking me to assassinate the most powerful man in the galaxy. It most certainly is my concern.”

“He’s not the most powerful man. He’s not even the second-most powerful. Kylo Ren—”

Sturch waves away his protests. “That’s beside the point. If your family is truly under the protection of the First Order, as you say, then right now you are committing _treason_. If this gets back to anyone in the Order, all of your relatives will be stripped of their land and wealth, and _you_ will be executed, probably without a trial.”

“But this is for the good of the Order!” Koradus insists. “They’ll be stronger without an ineffectual sycophant like Hux around.”

Something in the way he says the General’s name catches Sturch’s attention. The man’s eyes are bright, his lips quivering.

_Personal nature._

The realization dawns on him abruptly. “You and the General were lovers,” says Sturch. It’s not a question.

He expects Koradus to splutter and deny it, or maybe to slap him across the face, but instead the young man’s expression becomes impassive, unreadable. “That’s none of your concern,” he repeats coolly.

Sturch looks him over once more, appraising. He’s certainly in good physical condition, but apart from that pretty mouth, his face isn’t handsome by any stretch of the imagination. The General could have any man, woman, or creature in the galaxy; why pick this one? Perhaps the boy—for Sturch is beginning to think of him as a boy—made himself readily available, and the General had obliged him once or twice. Perhaps the General cast him aside after that, and Koradus, a spoiled child unaccustomed to being denied something he wanted, decided to lash out in the most melodramatic way possible.

“It doesn’t matter, in any case,” Sturch says. He may relish the occasional challenging assignment, but this one sounds more like a suicide mission than anything else. “I’m not taking the job. Don’t contact me again.”

He gets to his feet, making a mental note to call Bazine the instant he’s back in his ship. What had she been thinking, anyway, sending him someone like Mat Koradus? She was usually much savvier when it came to picking out clients.

“Wait,” Koradus says, rummaging around for something in his cloak pocket. He pulls out a small, late-model datapad. “We haven’t discussed your payment yet.”

Sturch snorts. “Trust me, there is no amount—”

Koradus shows him a figure on the datapad. “And that’s just what you’d get up front,” he adds.

Sturch discovers that his mouth is suddenly very dry. Perhaps Bazine is savvier than he realized.

“I’ll think about it,” he says.

 

***

 

Hours later, aboard his ship and orbiting Terminus, he arrives at a decision.

Much as he disliked the young man right away, everything Koradus told him checks out in Sturch’s initial consultation of holonet records. His potential client had, of course, left out a few crucial details—namely that he completed his schooling at the same First Order military academy as General Hux. Koradus even achieved the rank of Lieutenant Commander before receiving a dishonorable discharge and disappearing from the public record for several years.

To fill in the gaps, Sturch reaches out to a few old friends and former colleagues, now involved with Order in some capacity.

“Oh yeah, Koradus was a piece of work,” one tells him over the comm’s secure channel. “Temper like nothing else. Heard he got the boot for breach of chain of command or something like that.”

“Not fraternization?” Sturch asks wryly.

“Could be. There were plenty of rumors about the shit the officers got up to when they weren’t on duty.”

Sturch neglects to ask about Koradus and the General specifically. He trusts his contacts, for the most part, but he’s wary of revealing too much.

“The kid was loaded,” a former classmate tells him during a subsequent call. “Stuff like that wasn’t supposed to matter at the Academy, but it did, and everyone knew about it. He got special treatment because of his grandfather.”

“What about his parents?” Sturch prompts.

“Never heard a thing about them. I got the sense Kordadus didn’t like them all that much. He’d look at you like he wanted to snap you in half if you mentioned his father.”

Sturch shifts to a new line of questioning. “How did he get along with the other cadets?”

His contact chuckles. “Not well, to say the least. Didn’t have any friends, although we all learned pretty quickly not to mess with him. One boy tried to jump him after he botched a training exercise, and the next day his bed was empty, all his things were gone, and Koradus was just walking around with this fucking _smirk_ on his face.”

Every call after that further affirms Sturch’s initial impression of his would-be client. He begins to piece together a picture of an angry, arrogant young man who, by virtue of his pedigree, believes he is owed nothing less than the utmost respect and admiration from the people around him. It’s no wonder Sturch resented him on sight; their two upbringings could not have been more different.

What’s more, it’s clear that Koradus’s reasons for wanting the General dead must indeed be personal. From what he can gauge, the man stands to gain nothing politically or financially from having Hux assassinated. But Sturch knows from experience that thwarted passion can be a powerful motivator. While most of his assignments involve taking out debtors, smugglers, or mid-level government officials, he does accept the occasional wet job from a scheming wife or a philandering husband.

It’s no coincidence that the vast majority of individuals in his profession never marry.

Sturch knows that taking Koradus on as a client will be the most dangerous move he’s made to date. The whole operation will require weeks—possibly months—of careful planning, and the consequences of failure will be disastrous. Thinking about it sets his heart pounding in a way he hasn’t felt for years. He forces himself to visualize the sum that Koradus had showed him on the datapad.

_And that’s just what you’d get up front._

If he pulls this off, Sturch decides, he’ll order a Bazine a slinky, custom-made gown and take her to the opera on Coruscant. They’ll enjoy a late dinner at the nicest restaurant in town, and then Sturch will bring her back to a suitably ritzy hotel and fuck her into the mattress.

With that image in mind, Sturch types out a message for her:

_Tell Koradus I accept._

***

 

General Brendol Hux II wakes up colder than usual.

He keeps the temperature in his quarters hovering around 18° centigrade—not much higher than the rest of the ship. Sometimes, if he’s had a particularly trying day, he’ll turn the thermostat up to 20°. But he can’t afford to indulge in the extra warmth too often, or he’ll catch himself shivering on the bridge. And _shivering_ is unbecoming of a man of his rank.

Fortunately, there’s no one around to see him shiver now. The only other person in the room is fast asleep, wrapped tight in Hux’s comforter.

The General props himself up on his elbow to get a better a look at Kylo Ren in this rare, unguarded state. It shouldn’t come as a shock that Ren is the type to hog the blankets; he displays the same sort of callous disregard for anyone other than himself in his waking life as well.

In _most_ aspects of his waking life, at any rate. When they first entered into their current arrangement, Hux was surprised (and pleased) to find that Ren could be a generous lover. And when he wasn’t generous—when he took and took and offered nothing in return— _well_. Hux discovered he enjoyed that too.

Since returning from his classified mission to the Outer Rim, however, Ren has been unusually attentive and affectionate.

“What were you doing out there, anyway?” Hux had asked on the day Ren came back, pulling his undergarments back on and wiping away the evidence of the Knight’s enthusiastic greeting.

Ren was still sprawled out on the bed, surveying him with half-lidded eyes and an infuriatingly self-satisfied twist to his mouth. “Top secret.”

“Top secret?” Hux began, incredulous, before collecting himself. “I am the commanding officer aboard this ship. I should be privy to all _secrets_.”

“You’re not _my_ commanding officer.” Ren indicated the spot on the bed next to him. “Now get back here. We’re not done yet.”

Hux had complied. At least in the privacy of his own quarters, the General discovered he would do almost anything Lord Ren asked of him, rank be damned. So last night, when Ren told Hux to bend him over and take him from behind, Hux was only too happy to honor the request.

It was a nice of change of pace. Normally Hux was the one getting to his hands and knees for Ren, not the other way around. And the Knight had been so eager, so wonderfully responsive underneath his hands and around his cock. Each one of Ren’s muffled growls and bitten-off curses felt like the most earnest compliment, a litany of incoherent praise that buoyed the General up until he couldn’t bear it any longer and spilled inside the other man.

Hux shakes his head and looks down at his lap, where his erection twitches against his stomach.

Well. At least he isn’t cold anymore.

Stealing another glance at Ren’s sleeping form, Hux heads off to the ‘fresher, intending to re-live a few choice memories from the night before.

 

***

 

“Who is _that_?” Hux demands, mid-way through his morning rounds of the ship.

He gestures to the slight, gray-jumpsuited man perched nimbly atop a ladder, fiddling with the wiring in a surveillance panel. Hux has made a point of familiarizing himself with all personnel who have access to the _Finalizer_ ’s bridge, but he can’t recall ever seeing this individual before—and he has an excellent memory for faces.

Lieutenant Mitaka, still panting a little from the effort of matching the General’s long strides, fumbles to consult his datapad. “Technician with Kuat-Entralla, sir. On a two-week contract. Surveillance system repair.”

Hux has overseen the construction of enough ships to know that Kuat-Entralla contractors do not come cheap. He frowns. “Why aren’t our own techs taking care of it?”

Mitaka licks his lips and glances in either direction before speaking. “Sir, the damage inflicted to the consoles in sector twelve last month was extensive enough that—”

“ _Ren_ ,” Hux snarls, interrupting the Lieutenant. The next time the Knight shows up in his quarters, Hux decides, he’ll make him pay for every damn hour that contractor spends aboard the ship.

Mitaka does not respond, his gaze still flicking this way and that like he’s expecting a masked, black-robed figure to appear around the corner at any moment.

Hux snaps his fingers. “Come, give me the most recent progress report from Engineering.”

The General heads over to main viewport, pacing its length while Mitaka scurries along in his wake, reading the report from the techs down on Starkiller. Pride swells within him as he pauses before the viewport, surveying the snowy, hollowed-out planet below, luminous against the blackness of space, swarmed with mining vessels and half the Order’s fleet.

It’s Hux’s vision, his life’s work, made manifest at last.

Mitaka’s voice falls away with a squeak, and Hux turns abruptly, ready to chide the Lieutenant for stopping. Instead, his eyes land on Kylo Ren, who has just stomped onto the bridge in his usual graceless fashion.

It’s strange, observing the effect Ren has on others. Half of the officers visibly cringe away while the rest remain stock still, as though the Knight has frozen them in place with the Force.

Ren had used to the Force to immobilize _him_ , once. Hux reacted with something very different from fear.

Now, with his gleaming helm and swirling robes, Ren looks intimidating as ever. And yet Hux finds it difficult to be frightened of anyone whose full lips have wrapped so sweetly around his prick. He’s seen the soft, almost boyish face beneath the mask, seen it pink and shining with sweat as Ren hovered over him, chasing his release with erratic thrusts, mouth hanging open, dark eyelashes fluttering against flushed skin.

From the other end of the bridge, the Knight stares at him. Hux knows why; he’s making no effort to conceal the scene playing out in his mind. He might as well be showing Ren a lurid holo of his thoughts.

“Sir,” comes Mitaka’s hesitant voice from behind him. “Shall I continue?”

Hux turns away from Ren’s gaze, fighting the urge to grin. “Go on, then.”

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Even though he’s facing the wall, pretending to tinker with a surveillance panel, Sturch can tell that the General is staring at him.

The man’s booted strides come to an abrupt halt, and he begins speaking in hushed tones to the jumpy Lieutenant at his side. Sturch practically feels the General’s eyes on the back of his head, but for now, he’s confident his alibi will hold. He’s got good friends at Kuat-Entralla.

Still, he’s relieved when Hux moves on, heading for the bridge with the Lieutenant trailing behind him. Once the two officers are a suitable distance away, he takes in the General’s retreating form: gait brisk, back ramrod straight, not a copper hair out of place. Combined with the prissy sneer the man wears in every holo, Sturch doesn’t find it hard to imagine wanting him dead.

He starts to climb back down the ladder, but the sight of the figure sweeping around the corner freezes him in place.

The other technicians warned him about Kylo Ren on his first night aboard.

“He has these…tantrums,” one told him over the evening meal. “Just blows up and wrecks equipment, training rooms, troopers...anyone and anything nearby.”

“You’ll probably be okay, though,” another tech added. “I don’t think the General would let him kill a contractor. Too much paperwork.”

Given his true purpose aboard the ship, that thought doesn’t provide Sturch with much comfort.

Fortunately, the masked face doesn’t so much as turn in his direction as Ren stalks down the hallway, black robes billowing melodramatically in his wake. Once Ren’s around the corner, Sturch finishes climbing down and taps a floor-level panel with his foot, causing the ladder to retract back into the wall.

Sturch has never believed in the Force, not even as a child. When his bunkmate—a radar technician named Aster—told him that he once saw Kylo Ren choke a man from meters away without lifting a finger, he had to bite back the impulse to roll his eyes.

And yet he can’t deny that Ren has a sort of _presence_ about him. Force or no Force, the man is dangerous, and evidently unstable to boot. Sturch resolves to avoid him as much as he can while he carries out his task. Taking out a First Order General will be difficult enough without a dark lord on his tail.

On the way to the nearest surveillance network hub, Sturch pauses before a small viewport and looks down at the planet they’re orbiting. He’s been hearing rumors about the Order’s new superweapon for months, but he always dismissed them as wishful thinking on the part of those nostalgic for the old Empire. Now he can no longer deny the reality of Starkiller Base; it gleams at him from across the void, covered in snow and ice where it hasn’t been gutted by mining vessels.

Not for the first time, Sturch wonders ruefully why Leia Organa harbors such irrational dislike for individuals in his profession. He could make a killing selling this information to the Resistance.

Shaking his head, he tears his gaze away from the viewport. Enough dawdling. He’s got a job to do.

 

***

 

The other techs won’t shut up about Kylo Ren.

Sturch tries to get them talking about the General instead, as often as he can without drawing suspicion. But somehow the conversation always shifts back to Ren.

_“I bet he’s disfigured underneath the mask. That’s why he never takes it off.”_

_“They’re still doing repairs in sector twelve. Ren was there for all of five minutes.”_

_“I heard he brought a Sith holocron back from his last trip to the Unknown Regions.”_

_“I heard he’s hunting Luke Skywalker.”_

“He can read minds, you know,” Aster says during their mid-cycle meal on Sturch’s sixth day aboard. “They bring him in whenever normal interrogation tactics aren’t working.”

From a logical standpoint, Sturch knows this can’t be true. Nevertheless, a tiny sliver of doubt lodges itself in his mind, a faint, queasy feeling spreading to his gut in turn. If Kylo Ren can see his thoughts, Sturch is as good as dead.

He takes another swig of his foul nutrient shake. They don’t deign to provide their technicians with real food here on the _Finalizer_.

“If Ren can read minds, wouldn’t it be more efficient to bring him in every time there’s an interrogation? That way they wouldn’t have to waste time with torture. I’ve heard it can be quite the lengthy process.”

“Nah, Lord Ren’s too busy to show up every time they question a prisoner,” Aster says, finishing off his own shake.

Sturch nearly snorts. _Busy with what?_ Based on the hours of surveillance footage he’s reviewed, Ren spends most of his time stomping through the corridors of the _Finalizer_ like a bowlegged wraith. That is, when he’s not antagonizing the General.

Ren and General Hux have a contentious relationship, to say the least. Every single one of their recorded interactions ends with the two men bickering until one of them storms away. Sturch almost pities the General; sharing command of a starship with some jumped-up dark priest completely outside of the military structure must be maddening.

However, pity doesn’t stop Sturch from doing his job.

He spends days memorizing the General’s schedule, poring over the live feeds in the surveillance network hub until he feels like he can predict the man’s every regimented movement.

Hux isn’t one to stray from routine. He gets up early to make his rounds of the ship, usually while a junior officer briefs him. He takes his meals in the mess hall and dedicates the rest of his on-duty hours to pacing the bridge, recording propaganda holos for the troops or staring at the snowy outline of Starkiller below. He retires to his quarters early at the end of each cycle.

Tracking the General’s movements, Sturch has trouble picturing such a cold, perfunctory man as _anyone’s_ lover, let alone his client’s. The other officers all keep a respectful distance, and the only emotions the General ever demonstrates are irritation with Ren and a disarming fondness whenever he looks down at his planet-destroying superweapon.

In spite of himself, Sturch is reminded of Bazine Netal.

He doesn’t dwell on that thought. Once he’s confident he’ll be able to catch the General at unawares, he shifts his focus to the logistics of the assassination.

It will be best if the whole affair looks like a crime of passion rather than a premeditated execution. With that in mind, Sturch hacks into the Stormtrooper personnel files, seeking out anyone with a disciplinary record indicating possible resentment towards superior officers. He realizes with consternation that he’ll have to find someone close to his own height as well, if he wants to fit into the armor.

The whole process turns out to be more difficult than he anticipated. As it happens, troopers who rack up enough infractions tend to lose their lives in “training accidents” or “equipment failures.” Eventually, though, he locates a suitable candidate: one AK-1106, reprimanded last week for insulting a captain and sent off to reconditioning.

Sturch pulls up the trooper’s full record. He’s young—just over twenty—but he’s the right size, and he’s got an unpleasant twist to his mouth. Perfect.

With a few keystrokes, Sturch banishes the boy’s image and pulls up a diagram of the ship’s layout.

 

***

 

Two days later, he follows AK-1106 into the ‘fresher and jabs the trooper with a hypodermic full of sedative. The boy goes down easy, slumping to the floor without a sound. Reconditioning must have done a number on him.

Sturch drags him into a stall and proceeds to strip him of his blaster, armor, and jumpsuit, leaving the unfortunate trooper lying on the floor in nothing but his undergarments.

“Sorry about all this,” he says, addressing the boy’s unconscious form. Though being knocked out and stripped is far from the worst thing that will happen to him today, if all goes according to plan.

Sturch pulls on the jumpsuit and snaps each piece of armor into place. Before stepping back out into the hallway, he slips the helmet over his head. He made sure to disable the surveillance panels in this portion of the ship earlier, but he can’t risk being seen bare-faced by anyone passing by.

The General’s quarters are two decks above, closer to the bridge—three corridors and a service elevator away. Sturch doesn’t run into anyone on the way up, and for that he considers himself lucky. He’s tempted to remove the helmet in the elevator (he disabled the surveillance panels in there too, for good measure), but he leaves it on and settles for closing his eyes instead.

He’ll be glad when this job is over. Normally he relishes the challenge of a high-profile target, but something about being on the _Finalizer_ —about the whole situation, really—puts him on edge. He doesn’t like the feel of this place, and he knows his unease won’t go away until the General is gone and he’s back aboard his little ship, counting his credits.

The elevator doors open, revealing the entrance to the General’s quarters at the end of another long, harshly-lit hallway. Sturch’s grip tightens on the blaster as he makes his way towards the door. He’s got about five minutes before Hux goes off-duty. He’ll duck into the small alcove down the hall, and when the General walks past he’ll—

Something white-hot slams into him from behind, hitting a gap in his stolen armor.

 _Blaster bolt. Set to stun_ , his brain supplies, one last coherent thought before the world goes dark and the floor rushes up to meet him.

 

***

 

Hux lowers the blaster and re-holsters it.

The trooper lies prone, unmoving on the floor. Hux kicks him onto his back before crouching down to get a better look at him. He feels along the edges of the trooper’s helmet until he finds the unlocking mechanism.

One glance at the man’s face tells Hux he’s not really one of their soldiers. He’s too old—most troopers don’t make it past forty. Moreover, the General recognizes him as the contractor from Kuat-Entralla, the one he spotted near the bridge days ago.

The skin on the back of his neck prickles, and the elevator doors slide open behind him.

Hux doesn’t bother to turn around. “Is this your doing, Ren?” he asks.

Sure enough, Ren is at his side in a moment, masked face tilted downwards to consider the figure on the floor. “It’s certainly not my fault that you’re assaulting innocent Stormtroopers, General.”

“You know perfectly well this man is neither a Stormtrooper nor innocent.”

Ren shrugs. The gesture looks ridiculous coming from him. “Fine. He’s a bounty hunter.”

Hux suspected as much, but hearing Ren admit it so cavalierly irritates him. And he knows Ren can always sense his irritation. Most likely the man is already smirking behind that damned mask.

“Was I the target?”

Ren tilts his head. “I think you already know the answer to that.”

“And who do you think sent him?” Hux asks, though he’s sure he knows this answer to this question as well.

“Could be anyone. From what I hear you have quite a few enemies.”

Hux swears he can _feel_ his blood pressure spike. He does his best to keep his voice level. “It seems I have at least one aboard this ship.”

“Perhaps.”

Despite the mask’s modulator, Hux catches the amusement in the other man’s tone. Suddenly it’s too much. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Ren?” he snaps.

“Following orders.”

Hux wants to strangle him, wants to rip off that stupid mask and watch Ren’s face turn red and his eyes go glassy while he tightens his grip on that pretty throat. His hands twitch at his sides.

He must have been thinking quite loudly, because Ren reaches up and removes the helmet, letting it fall to the floor with a crash that echoes down the hallway. He’s smirking, just as Hux suspected.

“Do you know you get the same expression on your face when you’re thinking about killing me and thinking about fucking me?”

Abruptly, Hux sees Ren in his mind’s eye again, only this time the Knight is flushed and glassy-eyed for a very different reason.

“That can be arranged,” Ren says.

Strangling Ren is the more appealing option, Hux decides. But unlike the Knight, he’s no slave to his base impulses. He makes his voice sharp and imperious, the same way he addresses the petty officers on the bridge every morning. “Stop rooting around in my head and tell me what this man is doing aboard my ship.”

For once, Ren does as Hux asks. “The Knights have been instructed to exterminate all members of the former bounty hunters’ guild who have not explicitly demonstrated their loyalty to the Order.” He gestures to the figure on the floor. “This man was one of them.”

“So instead of dispatching with him quickly and efficiently, you thought you’d bring him onboard and toy with him? Send him on some sham mission to assassinate me?”

Ren folds his arms and leans back against the wall. “Who says it was a sham?”

Hux almost gapes at him. He knows Ren is reckless, given to fits of rage and poor decision-making, but this is beyond the pale, even for him. _Hiring an assassin? Really?_

“You—” Hux starts.

 “You think I’d get on my knees for a man who couldn’t fight off a washed-up bounty hunter?” Ren interrupts. “This was a test, General. One you passed with flying colors.”

Hux feels his cheeks heat up, and he resists the urge to cross the hall and shove Ren to the floor right then and there. “It wasn’t especially difficult,” he says instead. “When the entire surveillance system goes down in the sector surrounding my quarters, I tend to notice.” He shoots a disparaging glance at the unconscious assassin. “If you truly wanted to test me, perhaps you should have selected someone more competent.”

“Bazine Netal said he was one of the best.”

“Who—?” Hux begins to ask, but then he shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. I don’t want to know. The point is that you wasted the Order’s time and resources trying to prove that I’m somehow… _worthy_ of letting you suck me off.”

Ren lowers his gaze, almost like he’s ashamed. It doesn’t fool Hux for a second. “You’re right.” He drops his voice, arriving at a timbre that has always resonated with Hux on some primal level. Damn him. “What I’ve done is inexcusable. I deserve a reprimand. Discipline, even. _Punishment_.”

The General’s self-control, already stretched so thin, finally snaps. He crosses the corridor in a single fluid motion and shoves Ren up against the wall. Part of him still wants to wring the man’s neck, but Hux settles for claiming his mouth in a rough kiss. Ren makes a pleased sound, and for once he doesn’t try to take control of situation. He lets Hux lead, lets Hux pin his hands at his sides and deepen the kiss. Hux finds his anger with the Knight slipping away, replaced by something no less ardent.

A thought—a _brilliant_ thought, really— occurs to him then. He quickly conceals it, pressing it down into a corner of his mind where Ren won’t find it. He doesn’t want to spoil the surprise.

 “Not yet,” Hux says when Ren breaks from the kiss and starts to slide to his knees. “I have an idea. A test for _you_ , this time. You’ll like it.”

Ren’s eyes widen, and he follows Hux’s gaze over to the man lying on the floor. When he looks back, he’s grinning.

 

***

 

Of all the ways to be knocked out, a stun shot from a decent blaster is the cleanest.

Consciousness comes back to Sturch quickly, without any of the grogginess associated with drugs or blunt force trauma. His right shoulder and both elbows ache—he must have landed on them when he fell—but apart from that, he’s not in pain. He’s lying down, tilted at a 45 degree angle. Thick metal clamps encase his wrists and ankles.

Memories come flooding back all at once: the stolen armor, the elevator, the door to the General’s quarters. The sudden flare of agony in his shoulder.

_Not good._

Sturch opens his eyes.  He’s in the center of a dimly-lit chamber. Still aboard the _Finalizer_ , judging by the design of the wall and ceiling panels. He’s never been in this room before, but one look down at the contraption holding him in place tells him everything he needs to know.

It’s an interrogation chair. He’s seen them before, but never one so elaborate or outfitted with as many cruel-looking devices.

He wonders how many of those devices they’re going to use on him.

A muffled groan cuts off his rising panic. He twists in the restraints, head instinctively snapping towards the source of the noise.

As it turns out, he’s not alone in the room. There are two figures to his left, close to the wall: one standing, his face in shadow, and the other one kneeling before him with his back to Sturch. As his eyes adjust to the dark, Sturch notices that the kneeling figure is moving, rocking backward and forward slightly. The man standing upright groans again, and Sturch abruptly realizes what he’s seeing.

Sturch has had a number of strange sexual experiences in his life, but he’s never been restrained while he watches one man suck another off. Men aren’t really to his taste, and neither are restraints.

There’s a faint, wet sound, and then a voice from the shadows. “He’s awake,” the one on his knees says hoarsely.

“Lights,” the other man orders. His voice is prim and sharp—recognizable at once as the General’s. When the lights come up, they illuminate the familiar copper of his hair and his high, white cheekbones. He’s staring right at Sturch, one corner of his mouth quirked up in an unkind smile.

Sturch is about to tell the General that he didn’t take him for an exhibitionist, but the figure on his knees turns to face him before he can speak.

All the breath escapes Sturch’s lungs. He knows that face, knows the large, ungainly nose, those dark eyes and full lips.

It’s his client. It’s _Koradus._

Only it isn’t Koradus. Not at all. The man’s sleeves and cowl and surcoat are unmistakable, as is the helmet lying on the floor at his side.

“It occurs to me that you and Lord Ren have never been formally introduced, Mr. Sturch,” says the General.

Koradus—no, _Ren_ —shifts slightly, giving Sturch an obstructed view of the General’s erection.

“Actually, I seem to remember meeting him a few weeks ago,” Sturch replies. His mind is reeling. Ren and the General look amused, like this is all some sort of _game_ to them.

Maybe it is.

The General shakes his head. “No, you met a spoiled, disgraced young aristocrat. This,” he gestures to the figure kneeling at his feet, “is the Master of the Knights of Ren.”

Ren gazes up at Hux, and the fondness in his expression almost makes Sturch’s stomach turn.

“Does the General know that you hired me to assassinate him, _Lord Ren_?” he spits, anger winning out over fear.

Ren’s voice is still a little hoarse when he answers. “Yes, I told him a few minutes after he caught you skulking around his quarters.” He sounds inordinately pleased with himself.

Sturch looks away from the pair of them, cursing his own poor judgment. How could he have been so _stupid,_ so careless as to end up here? He should have trusted his instincts when he first met Koradus— _Ren._ He should have abandoned the job and left the _Finalizer_ the first time he felt a hint of unease.

Above all, he shouldn’t have listened to Bazine. There’s no doubt in his mind that the mercenary had something to do with this. He was too busy thinking about fucking her again to see the trap she set for him.

Rage bubbles up in his throat: rage at himself, rage at Netal, rage at this whole fucking situation. He speaks without thinking, addressing the General. “Is this how you get off?” he asks. “Staging elaborate assassination attempts, torturing people while this unfortunate-looking _freak_ sucks your cock?”

The minute the words leave his mouth, Sturch knows he’s finished. Still, it’s oddly satisfying to watch the General’s face contort with fury.

“I’m tired of listening to this man, Ren,” Hux snaps. “Take care of him, will you?”

There’s a sudden, crushing pressure on Sturch’s throat. He wants to scrabble at his neck, to tear away whatever is choking him, but the restraints around his wrists refuse to yield.

Across the room, still on his knees, Ren’s face breaks into a sadistic grin.

 _So the rumors_ were _true,_ Sturch thinks before his eyes roll back into his head.

 

***

 

Hux swears under his breath as the wet heat of the Knight’s mouth envelops him once more.

Ren has sucked him off on previous occasions, but not like this. Usually he’s competent at it: efficient, but never quite so _good._ And he’s never let Hux touch him the way Hux is touching him now, with his fingers tangled in Ren’s hair, his cock hitting Ren’s soft palate on each thrust. The sounds they’re making are obscene—the slurping, all the little groans Hux doesn’t try to suppress.

It’s nearly enough to drown out the noise of the man asphyxiating in the center of the room.

The bounty hunter is not dying quickly or quietly, but Hux has a feeling that this is Ren’s intention. He loves knowing that Ren can do this: that Ren can kill a man without touching him, but he’ll still get on his knees for Hux. Having all that power right at his feet, pliant and supplicatory in front of him, is intoxicating.

He disengages from Ren’s hair and cups his cheek instead, stroking the line of his jaw. Ren hums around his cock in response, and Hux almost comes down his throat right then and there. He won’t be able to hold off much longer.

“It’s time,” Hux says raggedly. “Will you do it the way we discussed?”

Ren nods, his mouth still on the General. The noises from the center of the room grow harsher, more strained. Hux doesn’t bother to look up and watch the spectacle, preferring to focus on Ren’s head bobbing up and down his length.

“Will you feel it?” Hux gasps out. _Fuck,_ he’s almost there. “When he dies?”

Ren nods again, speeding up, hitting the underside of Hux’s cock perfectly with tongue. The Knight is palming himself over his robes, and the sight alone is enough to push Hux over the edge.

The noises stop abruptly when the General comes, shuddering, transported with pleasure. Ren’s eyes close and his brow furrows. He doesn’t pull off until he’s swallowed down every bit of Hux’s release. When he removes his mouth with a wet _pop,_ he looks wrecked and transcendent. Hux wonders for a moment if Ren managed to climax as well before he sees the erection still tenting the Knight’s robes.

Hux glances up. The little man in the interrogation chair lies unmoving, head lolling off to one side. Not for the first time, the General wishes he shared Ren’s abilities. How exhilarating it must be to _feel_ the last shred of life leave your enemy’s body.

“I’ll show you, some day,” Ren promises, voice low and gravelly. He’s still on his knees. “But Hux, _please_ , I need—”

“I know what you need,” Hux cuts him off. He doesn’t even bother to tell Ren to get out of his head this time. “You’ve passed the test. You’ve earned it. Come here.”

Ren drops onto all fours and _crawls_ to him. If Hux hadn’t just come, the submissiveness of the gesture would make him hard.

He slips a hand between the Knight’s legs and leans down to whisper in his ear.

“Perhaps hiring an assassin wasn’t such a bad idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sinning with me, friends.


End file.
